


All Dressed Up

by rufousnmacska



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Crown of Midnight, F/M, Heir of Fire, Manorian, Queen Of Shadows, Throne of Glass, blackbeak witches, crochan witches, empire of storms, ironteeth witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-04 23:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15157436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufousnmacska/pseuds/rufousnmacska
Summary: A fluffy manorian mini-fic that takes place after EoS. When Manon and Dorian finally find the Crochans, they also find themselves in over their heads. In more ways than one.





	1. Chapter 1

 

What in the name of the gods was she doing?

Manon took a slow, deep breath and ran her hands down the side of her dress, pretending to smooth it out while hiding her nerves.

_Dress._

Even the word enraged her.

Closing her eyes, she pictured Aelin, smirking with her childish arrogance, her annoying certainty that Manon would somehow rally the witches against Erawan. If Manon had known it would involve ingratiating herself to a Crochan matron who had been hiding in plain sight as a widowed Fenharrow noble… a matron who favored the ridiculous human customs of courtly entertaining…

 _There are spies everywhere, idiot witchling_ , she’d cooed, her voice reminding Manon so much of her grandmother that it had made her skin crawl. _We must welcome you and your guest with a proper dinner_. The crone’s eyes had lingered on Dorian then. He maintained an even, polite expression, but she sensed his disgust as well.

Perhaps his discomfort stemmed from the way the matron’s heirs were watching him. Like they were starving and hungry for more than his blood. Sorrel’s barely audible cough was the only thing that kept Manon from flashing her iron teeth and nails at the haughty bitches.

So, if they were to make any inroads with the Crochans, she would have to suffer through this evening, pretending to know how the nobility behaved at such events. If she survived, if she managed not to offend anyone, the opportunity for private meetings would be made available. As it was, this strange test made her uneasy. But seeing as it was the only option… They’d graciously accepted.

And now, here she was, standing atop a long, curving staircase, refusing to move, dreading the night to come along with this _thing_ she had to wear. The Thirteen were allowed to remain in their usual clothing since they would be attending as her guard, not actual guests. They knew better then to laugh or even compliment her. Especially after Vesta had winked at the amount of skin the dress put on display.

The Crochan matron had left the dress in her rooms while Manon bathed. It was apparently magicked to fit any size, though it didn’t seem to change much when she first put it on. The length of the green silk adjusted itself to her height, and that was it. If only the drastically deep neckline could be redone, she’d thought. In both front and back, the V dipped almost to the golden belt fastened around her waist. It had taken several of her coven to get her into it properly, with Ghislaine offering the most help since she’d once lived in the human world.

And hell. The shoes were ridiculous. A rich gold to match the belt, the things had heels, a small opening for her toes to peep through, and worst of all, bows. Containing the same magic as the dress, the shoes fit perfectly. Kicking everyone out of her rooms, she’d practiced walking in them, surprised to find them relatively comfortable.

The dress was too close-fitting to allow for the amount of movement she was used to, but she was able to bend and punch, and even kick, if need be. No weapons at dinner of course, but she felt far from defenseless with her iron and fighting skills.

Most of the Thirteen were in the dining hall already, securing it before her arrival. But Sorrel and Vesta were behind her, never to leave her side. Vesta made a noise of impatience, but Manon ignored her. Still frozen at the top of the stairs, she thought about blaming the shoes. But they’d see right through her.

The faint sound of a door closing made her look across the cavernous foyer to a sweeping stairway that mirrored her own. Dorian appeared at the top, head down, adjusting the jacket he’d been given to wear. It fit snugly across his broad shoulders and narrow waist, falling to his knees. A deep, luscious purple, the material seemed to shimmer. Or, maybe that was the golden embroidery lining the collar and cuffs, similar in design to her belt. It wound down around the buttons and pockets as well.

When he lifted his head, his eyes went right to her. For a split second, his mouth hung open before twisting into a smirk.

 _Oh gods_ , Manon thought.

She heard a snort from behind her and realized she’d said it out loud.

**********

 _Oh my gods_ , Dorian thought, mentally making sure his jaw hadn’t separated from his head.

He was utterly frozen by the sight of her. Manon stood across from him in a silky emerald green dress that bared a lot of skin and clung to a lot of curves. Her moon white hair was draped over a shoulder in a loose, messy braid. When she took a step down, lifting the skirt to keep from tripping on it, he caught sight of her shoes. The combined effect of the curved heel, the exposed toe and the view of her leg… He’d never thought he had a shoe fetish, but it appeared he may have to reconsider.

Dorian hurried down his staircase and then started up hers. When he reached Manon, still taking her time to descend, he got his first look at the back of her dress and suppressed a gasp. Somehow, he managed to resist the urge to slide his hand beneath the fabric pooled around the belt at the small of her back. The witches behind them did nothing to cover their smiles and he wondered if maybe the gasp hadn’t been concealed after all.

Offering his arm, Dorian bowed slightly and said, “Witchling.”

Manon side-eyed him, her gaze traveling slowly up and down. And back up again. Unable to help himself, he winked. He knew she was nervous, not just from having to go through this silly charade tonight. So much depended on gaining these witches as allies. Playing dress up was the least of their concerns.

She released a breath and smiled. “Princeling.”

“It’s proper etiquette for me to escort you in,” he said, nodding to his still waiting arm.

As she looped her arm around his and he led her down the stairs, he realized how desperate he had been to feel her touch. Without thinking, he placed his hand on top of hers. In reply to her cocked eyebrow, he simply said, “Etiquette.”

Just as they reached the ornate wooden doors into the dining room, Dorian stopped and turned towards her. “It’s also customary for the gentleman to compliment the lady he is escorting.”

He stared at her for a long, silent moment until she tilted her head, uncharacteristically doubtful. Her expression pierced his heart and he was struck by the urge to hide her away in a room alone and shower her with affection.

“Unfortunately, your beauty has stolen all of my words. Perhaps this will suffice?” he rasped, lifting her hand to his mouth. As slowly as possible, Dorian drew his lips across her fingers, never taking his eyes off her, making sure Manon felt the truth of his words.

He thought she might have stopped breathing. He certainly had, from the way her eyes had turned liquid and molten, from the way she’d pulled her bottom lip ever so slightly between her teeth.

When he placed her hand back on his arm, the doors were pushed open from within. He felt Manon tense beside him as all eyes turned to them.

With a smile plastered to his face, he whispered, “You are a queen, Manon Blackbeak. Don’t ever forget it.”

She glanced at him quickly before they were shown to their seats. Her brief smile of thanks melted him more than any dress in the world ever could.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Really, this was nothing new for Dorian. He’d lost count of the number of dinners and balls where he had to juggle several women at once. It had never been a struggle. Even those times when he had to dance with a recent break-up, times that should have been the height of awkwardness, he’d handled them with poise.

Tonight was different.

The problem wasn’t the handsy Crochan heirs who’d trapped him between them with their too-close chairs and boring conversation. He’d dealt with their kind before.

The problem was Manon.

She’d been seated near the center of the table beside the matron, far away from him. While he’d known part of his role tonight was to distract the heirs so Manon could speak with the matron, he’d assumed they would have been seated together. When they weren’t, his mood had plummeted.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much.

Well, maybe he did.

It was possible that the looks she was getting from the various men in attendance were starting to annoy him. He knew some of them were in fact male witches. And the way the matron had fawned over two or three in particular while introducing them to Manon… He suspected this dinner was not entirely for show.

The males watched Manon like hungry wolves, eager to catch her eye at every turn. Whenever they were successful, winning a slight nod of acknowledgement from her, Dorian felt his magic roar to life.

He hadn’t been able to leash it the first time. As ice crystallized around him, the heirs had gasped and applauded, drawing everyone’s attention, including Manon’s. He’d wished he could explain that he wasn’t _showing_ off but was, actually, _pissed_ off. Instead, due to the high stakes of this dinner, he grinned at the sisters like a fool, playing the flirt they wanted him to be.

The youngest heir, he thought her name was Kira, leaned close, said something and began to giggle. Dorian laughed along though he had no idea what she’d said. Her sister Nori took a turn and ran her hand along Dorian’s collar, complimenting him on the jacket, as if it was his own and not loaned to him by her mother.

The whole time, he smiled and laughed and made all the right expressions at the right moments. Said all the right things with politeness, and a hint of flirtation.

The whole time, his eyes kept sliding to Manon, exquisite and more regal in her unadorned dress and delicate emerald earrings than any queen he’d ever seen. His body ached to be near her, to brush his fingers against hers.

To let her know that every second with these sisters was an act.

Maybe that’s what was bothering him so much. The fact that each time he was forced to laugh at something, or allow a hand on him just long enough for it to not appear rude when he removed it… Every time he looked at Manon, she turned away, a troubled slant to her expression.

The heirs were now arguing over who would get the first dance with him. But Dorian said nothing, pretending he didn’t hear them while he sliced into the roast boar he wasn’t hungry for, his gaze never leaving Manon.

Something inside him turned leaden as he realized he was no better than those predatory males, desperate for any sign that she noticed him.

 

*****

 

Manon bit back a sneer as the Crochan matron’s words morphed into a faint buzzing sound that was all too easy to ignore.

That male witch - Martin? Or Merlin? Who could remember - had grinned at her again before guzzling more wine. In any other situation, she would have made him pay for such insolence. Instead, she had to play nice.

Even when he’d asked her to promise him a dance when the matron introduced him. She’d replied with a blank stare until he’d walked away, uncomfortable but not cowed. Better rudeness than what she’d really wanted to do - slash his leering eyes from his face.

Manon felt a rush remembering the way Dorian had looked at her. All heat and desire, but with a respect the Crochan was lacking.

A fit of giggles erupted from Dorian’s end of the table, drawing her attention before she could stop herself. She was no expert on courtly protocol, but something deep in her gut told her these witches were skirting the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Their mother’s critical stare confirmed it. But the heirs were either oblivious or choose to ignore it.

Her blood felt like it was boiling, and not from the memory of Dorian’s eyes on her.

While he tried to eat his food, the older sister was pawing him in a bid to keep him focused on her. The other one glared, planning her next move in the battle for his attentions.

His easy smile and shift towards the older witch was what finally made her look away, fists clenched in an attempt to keep her claws from making an appearance.

Dorian was supposed to be helping her gain the Crochan’s trust. His experience in matters such as this far outweighed hers. Instead, they’d been separated. Out of the blue, she longed to have a moment with him, just enough to exchange a word or a touch, _anything_ to reassure her that this wasn’t a waste of time. 

She glanced to Sorrel, standing guard off to the side. Her sentinel’s mouth was quirked upwards, aware of everything happening, every emotion on Manon’s face.

Manon forced a blank expression and went back to her meal, only partly listening to the matron as she talked. She made herself eat a few bites of each course, feeling sicker with each swallow. 

Eyes, _everywhere_ there were eyes. The males, the other guests, the matron, all watching her. 

Never Dorian though. He was totally engrossed in some story being told by the younger sister, no doubt an exciting and detailed account of her latest shopping excursion. 

Gods. She needed to snap out of this. 

Everything about tonight - the dress, the manners, the fake conversations, the horrible food - it kept piling on top of her until she felt buried in sand, struggling to breathe. 

“Are you not well?”

Manon shook her head, hoping to clear it. “Excuse me?” 

The matron looked genuinely concerned, perhaps the first real emotion the witch had shown aside from the displeasure over her daughters’ behavior. 

“You look as though you are going to be sick. Surely our cook is not that bad?”

She felt Dorian’s stare then, but ignored it. “No, everything is excellent,” she said, offering a courteous nod of her head. The matron seemed mollified so Manon decided to take a chance. 

“I am however exhausted from a long day of travel. I’m afraid I may have to skip the entertainment after dinner.” She got no reply, so in a low whisper, she added, “I must confess, I do not dance. I would hate to break someone’s foot with my clumsiness.”

The matron studied her for a long moment before flitting her hand in the air. “Of course. We will have time to discuss things tomorrow.”

The instant Manon finished her dessert, she stood, nodded to the Matron and left the hall.

She didn’t care that some of the males tried to follow her out. Until they were not so gently turned away by half of the Thirteen, who’d left with her. 

She didn’t care that the rest had stayed behind to guard Dorian, who now had one sister practically in his lap and a line of women and witches waiting to dance with him.

No. She didn’t care at all.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Dorian rounded the corner just as Manon’s door slammed shut.

He’d tossed one of the Crochan heirs back into her chair, ignored the other, and practically sprinted from the dining hall as Manon left. He hadn’t known there were a few of the Thirteen still guarding him until they were running behind him. That’s when he realized what he must look like and he slowed to a fast walk. Then decided he didn’t care and sped up again.

But he’d missed her anyway.

Sorrel stopped him outside Manon’s rooms with a raised hand, not bothering to hide the smile on her face. “No visitors. Her orders.”

Dorian sighed. “Was that meant for me or those lecherous males downstairs?”

The small witch’s grin grew larger, and he was a bit relieved that she kept her iron teeth hidden. “She didn’t specify. I suppose it’s up to me.”

Voices sounded from down the hall and Dorian recognized one of the matron’s daughters. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at Sorrel, desperate in more ways than one.

“Please, Sorrel.” He looked back towards the growing noise. “I can’t.” Sorrel’s eyes flicked to Vesta. “And I need to see her.”

“Need or want?” Vesta asked from where she leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

Dorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, making himself _not_ push through the lethal wall of witches between him and Manon’s door.

“Need. Or want,” Vesta repeated.

“Both,” he said through gritted teeth, staring her right in the eye. The redhead looked to Sorrel and they shared some silent communication.

Finally, Sorrel opened the door and ushered him through, just as the Crochan heir turned into their hallway. As the door shut behind him, he could hear a low, collective growl, undoubtedly sending the Crochan back the way she’d just come.

“Sorrel! I told you I wanted to be left-” Manon appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, then froze. “Alone.”

“Expecting someone else?” Dorian asked, failing to hide the jealous edge in his voice.

In truth, he knew she was expecting no one. But she still had the dress on. And the shoes. And her hair was in loose waves around her shoulders. And it made him lose his mind.

“What do you want?” she growled. “Why aren’t you entertaining your new friends?”

Dorian smirked. Yes, he was jealous, but her mood had turned as green as her dress. Manon’s eyes narrowed and she disappeared into her bedroom. He followed, shutting the door behind him.

When he locked it, she turned, eyes wide in disbelief. And challenge.

“I wanted to tell you goodnight. Since you left dinner so abruptly,” he said, walking towards her. “And I wanted a place to stay since those insufferable witches are probably lying in wait for me. If I have to endure one more moment near them, I fear our hopes for an alliance will disappear.”

Manon’s mouth twitched, but she backed away from him, somehow looking down her nose at him despite their height difference.

“And I wanted to say goodnight.”

Almost a real smile. “You already said that.”

His eyes traveled slowly up and down her body. “You don’t know the ways in which I like to say goodnight,” he drawled.

“I think I can guess,” she replied. “And, I think I won’t be a consolation prize for a flirt who got in over his head.”

She was playing a good game, but he felt the fire rising in her, saw the way she was devouring him with her eyes.

“Do you really want to argue?” Dorian asked, taking a step towards her and unfastening the top buttons of his jacket.

*****

Manon was about to give in to her foolish anger and answer yes when he took another step. She backed away, unable to take her eyes off the V of golden skin now visible at his open collar.

“Or would you rather I show you what I was thinking about all night?”

Another step. Her back was against the wall of books. Dorian didn’t stop until he was inches away. The heat of his stare was like a flame to her skin.

He ran the back of his hands down the length of her arms and asked, “Would you rather find out what I wanted to do to you when I first saw you in that dress tonight?”

When he reached her wrists, he took hold of them and lifted her arms over her head, pinning her to the wall. He stretched her so she was on the tips of her toes, her head tilted back, her lips parted, their eyes locked.

“Would you rather find out what I’ve wanted to do to you since yesterday morning?”

His voice was deep and rough and he dragged his mouth from her shoulder to her ear.

“Since the day before that?”

His free hand slid down her side and she shuddered. He brought it back to her breast, caressing it through the thin fabric.

“And the day before that?”

His thumb circled her nipple and she arched into him. She moaned a hoarse yes as he lifted her skirt and pressed himself against her.

“And every day before that?”

His teeth bit gently into her earlobe and she tilted her hips to rub against him. He hissed in reply, sliding his warm hand up the inside of her leg.

Manon wanted to resist, to prolong things, but, as if acting on its own, her leg lifted, giving him more access. She wrapped it around his waist and he grabbed her thigh, pulling it higher.

“Since Oakwald,” she whispered, savoring the feel of his fingers’ steady progress up her leg.

“Since Oakwald,” he agreed.

When he slid two fingers inside her, they both gasped. Manon groaned, pulling against his hold on her wrists, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he took a half step back, watching her arch and writhe and grind against his hand. She was on fire, from his touch, his hungry gaze, his everything.

“I want more. I want all of you,” she moaned, not caring that it brought an arrogant grin to his face.

“Not yet,” he said, stroking her until she thought she might scream from the intensity. He nosed her dress aside and flicked her nipple with his tongue, making her back curve even further. As he alternated between his teeth and tongue, she thought she might truly come undone.

When the pressure and heat built to an almost excruciating degree, Manon was panting, his name on her every breath. Dorian lifted her arms another inch, curled his fingers inside her, not letting up until her legs began to shake.

Manon cried out as fire flooded her core and release washed over her.

Dorian watched it all, his blue eyes now almost black with desire. When she sank against the wall, he dropped her arms and they fell to her sides. She would have fallen too if not for him catching her around the waist and holding her up.

While she felt him undoing his pants, he mumbled something in her ear. It took her a moment to understand what he was saying.

“I’m yours, Manon. Since Oakwald. And every day after.”

She pulled herself up and wrapped her legs around his waist just as his pants dropped. He nudged against her and she ached to have him fully inside.

“Every day. Yes, Dorian,” she said, her words trailing off into a silky moan as he entered her and she lost herself again.

*****

Later, as they lay in bed, exhausted from a lengthy ‘goodnight’, Manon was just nodding off when Dorian sat up. She went with him as she’d been draped across him.

“What?” she asked, mildly annoyed to be dragged from sleep.

Gently, but hurriedly, Dorian pushed her aside and went over to the wall of books where they’d begun the night. Several volumes were splayed on the floor. He carefully picked them up and examined them, as if they were injured children.

“Really?” she asked. She tried not to smile but failed.

After he checked them and put them back on the shelf, Dorian returned to bed and positioned them as they had been, pulling her back down on his chest.

“You should be proud witchling,” he said, closing his eyes and pulling her closer. “I didn’t even notice those books until hours after we’d knocked them off. You are _that_ distracting.“

She breathed a laugh. “It was the dress.”

“Perhaps,” he purred as he caressed her bare back. The feel of his hand and the gentle rise and fall of his chest were quickly drawing her closer to sleep. “Except you distract me all the time, no matter what you’re wearing.”

“You distract me too, princeling. All the time,” she muttered.

He kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Goodnight.”


End file.
